Cats Should Not Hide Mice
by bishie-stalker
Summary: Col. Hans Landa enters a home and finds more then just mice hiding in the woodwork. The dog is on the prowl for cats, and mice.


"Katzen sollten nicht Mäuse für den Hund verstecken sich verfangen sie…"

There came a gentle knocking as my in-law's tucked my ash blonde hair into an overly hot wool cap. I tried to follow their French, but it was much too fast for me. I heard the word Nazi and Jew, and I immediately felt even warmer. Mrs. LePerde hugged me and said something again in French. My husband and his younger brother, who I was now dressed as, had left the country not more than a week before. I was dressed in short knickers and his little brown shoes, too tight. Jacques' mother had given me larger green sweater to wear to hide my breasts. There was not much there to begin with. So, here I stood in front of two worried sets of eyes as fourteen-year-old boy. A loose strand of hair fell in my eyes which Mrs. LePerde immediately snuck back under the wool cap. She rushed to the kitchen to prepare coffee and cake.

"Hurry, Paul, answer the door." She said in French from the small kitchenette.

She hugged me once more and said something quickly.

"I will," I said in broken French.

Paul's little face was red and his Basset hound eyes were full of worry and sadness. We had a young Jewish couple hiding in our home, and we were on _their _list. My in-laws were not Jewish, but my husband had converted out of rebellion against his parent's oppressive religious teaching, however, I found this ironic. They had told S.S. officers Jacques, Michele, and I were all out of the country visiting my family in New York for the Christmas holiday. It worked until the young couple came to stay with us. The third knock brought me back to reality.

"Come in, come in." Paul greeted.

He scurried around like a squirrel who had received a confusing knock to the head. Paul was a round little man who reminded me of a penguin as he waddled about the house and their tailor shop. His wife entered the living room with a tray of coffee and spice cake.

"No, thank you." Came a cool, collected voice from the front door.

"I must watch what I eat. Alterations can be pricing, you know. However, I believe you folks could help me with that." He added with cold, dry laugh.

Paul and his wife laughed as best they could. She remained calm and poise, but her husband continually dabbed his forehead with a soiled kerchief. The S.S. officer sat beside Paul.

"So, where's is your son and his wife?"

Mrs. LePerde spoke now after a small sip of coffee. She replaced the cup on the saucer, shifted her weight and looked the officer in the face.

"They are on holiday in America with my daughter-in-law's parents." She smiled, confidently.

I sat by the radio pretending to read a French comic book, but my eyes kept falling to the S.S. officer. He was a Colonel by a quick look at his badges and leather jacket decorated with the Nazi honoraries. His square jaw flexed with his every word, but his eyes were warm and believing. He was German, but his French accent was flawless. I only picked up on a few words and phrases, but my job was not to speak. I was to sit and be a good "boy". They spoke a little while, but I was lost. I continued to secretly watch this Colonel. I know knew who he was. As if on cue his eyes met mine. He smiled, and I swallowed my heart. Something was wrong already.

"Is that your youngest in the living room?"

"Yes," Paul muttered.

"How old?"

"Fourteen."

"Come here, boy."

The Jew Hunter waved a gloved hand in my direction. My blood was prickly, but I stood and shuffled my way over to him. Under the surface my veins boiled with lava-like hatred for this man.

"This is Jacques. Freshly fourteen and quite the handful" Mrs. LePerde spoke softly.

"Young boys are. Some of my men are not much older. I know how it is." He told her with the cruelest smile ever plausible on a man. She did not see it.

He shook my hand and said something to me in French. I understood school, but nothing else. I shifted awkwardly as I tried to focus on his flawless French.

"Good, it is very hard in arithmetic." I knew it sounded awful.

"Math, not my best subject, either." He chuckled.

He returned to his seat and asked them some questions. I was confused, but I knew he was asking about Michele and I. Paul was very fidgety, and it made the Colonel watch him even closer. The conversation switched to the couple. I flipped through the pages and listened to a radio station that was as foreign as their conversation. Long minutes passed, Paul was sweating profusely and his eyes were moist with tears. The next moments that followed were the ones I most remembered.

"Jacques, you dislike math?" Colonel Landa asked me.

"How many people live in this house currently?"

Mrs. LePerde began to cry softly. I choked back down acidic, warm bile. I could not think for the word "three" in French. My mind was black and empty.

"Three." I choked out.

"Oh, so you speak German?"

"Yes, I was making you feel at home, Colonel."

He laughed and carried it toward Paul and his wife's direction. I heard something metal being pulled from his leather jacket. It creaked nauseatingly as he relaxed back in the seat. The lamplight cast shadows over his eyes. That welcoming demeanor was now gone and that stood before them was a maniacal Grim Reaper. Their terrified faces were too much to bear. I broke into hysterical tears.

Landa stood up, his coat creaking, and the metal coming out of his jacket made me sick to my stomach. He pointed the revolver at my in-laws. It glistened in the lamplight as if laughing for this monster. He grabbed my arm with his free hand and forced me to his side. The Jew Hunter's eyes glistened with pure madness.

"Katzen sollten nicht Mäuse für den Hund verstecken sich verfangen sie!" He cried as he emptied two bullets into each of them.

Blood and brain matter splattered the white walls. I heard flesh and bone fall into the mugs of coffee. Their bodies slumped heavily to the floor. I could not pull away from him. He replaced his revolver into his jacket. My face was buried in it. He smelled clean and fresh. I did not hold on for comfort, but to hide from the carnage. I wept against his shoulder and he stroked my hair gently.

"Sabine, where are the Jews? You are brave girl and belong to be with your own kind. Soon, ma chérie. " he asked in German, but ended quietly in French.

I did not answer.

"The attic, yes?"

"The trash needs to be taken out." He said to one of his men as they entered.

Boots could be heard entering the small little house, but I continued to scream into the bitter smell of Nazi leather. I heard other screams from the young couple and angry German commands from Landa. He stifled me from hearing anything else. I felt cold metal at my temple. There were two more gun shots, and the world became hot and I slipped into darkness.


End file.
